A Day In The Life of Dysfunctional Mercenaries
by LightningsShadow118
Summary: A collection of random chronicles documenting the lives of the nine mercenaries when off the battlements
1. Doesn't Make Much Sense

A collection of random chronicles, documenting the lives of the nine mercenaries when off the battlements.

* * *

Sniper: "Doesn't make much sense, when you get right down to it."

Indeed.

* * *

TeuFort was seldom peaceful, even during ceasefire. When the farm animals weren't awake and raising a stint, the Engineers were busy together modifying their blueprints, the Scouts were playing some one-on-one variation of baseball, and there was often a good deal of poker being played in one base or another.

Upon the rooftops of the RED Battlements, stolen away from all the usual post-sunset hullabaloo, The RED Sniper and the BLU Spy lay side-by-side, relaxing under the cool evening sky, just chatting. It was not an unusual thing to see; despite all the propaganda, all the blind hatred each team was meant to feel towards the opposite, towards the 'enemy', no one sincerely hated anyone. The Administrator had only found out about the RED Demoman and the BLU Soldier because it had been the first public display of friendship between any of them. Both teams had learned from their mistake, and kept their friendly interactions narrowed to whenever their Administrator could not observe.

Ceasefire was one of those times, and so there they were, laughing like the best of friends.

"A'roight, there was this one toime," Sniper said, gesturing with his beer bottle. "I was at a bar with a couple of me best mates. We'd meet up together every few weeks or so to swap stories, roight? So I head up, grab a couple beers, an' when I come back my seat's gone. This guy at a nearby table apparently took it for himself, didn't bother askin'. I hand off the beers, tap the bloke on the shoulder, ask him if I could please have me seat back. He brushes me off an' turns back to his mates. I'm thinkin', not the best start, so I try again. He scoffs at me an' stands up. He's not giving back the seat though. Damnit, he's gotta be about the size'a Heavy in muscle, and he's got a whole broom under his nose."

Spy chuckled at the image; Sniper standing before some brutish, burly Australian, the epitome of everything Sniper knew he wasn't. The Frenchman took a shallow swig from his wine glass.

Sniper continued, "I'm bailed up, an' I can smell the drink on him, but I got a plan. When he tells me to bugger off, I _politely_ imply that his dad's a dropkick. Well, hell if he gets–"

"Quoi?" Spy raised an eyebrow. "You called 'is fazzer a _what?_"

Sniper furrowed his brows, then understanding hit him. He sometimes forgot when he was using vernacular exclusive to his home country.

"I basically called his dad a dumbass."

"Ah. Go on."

A baseball slammed against the RED Battlement's sheet-metal. One of their Scouts shouted something at the other, anger mixed with utter delight. The other shouted some muffled apology at the two upon seeing them. The apology was well-recieved, and the two young men returned to their dodge-ball rough housing.

"Roight. So, he gets all red-eyed, but," Sniper held up a finger around his bottle. "I'm the sober one. He made to swing at me, but the bloke's bloody drunk; he can't hardly swing for the life of him.

"So what I do is," Sniper demonstrated the motion as he described it, "I swoop down, palm bared, swing up as he comes forward to strike, an' ram him roight on the tip of his nose."

Spy's brows flew up, and he smiled. "Really! You planted ze cartilage in 'is brain, did you?"

"More'r less, yeah." Sniper nodded, and took a swig. "I think he doied. Can't quite remember. Could'a just been brain damage, for all I know."

Spy smirked, snickered. "Even zen, in front of an entire pub, you did not care. Honhon! 'Ow marvelous, _Tireur isolé._"

Sniper rolled his eyes, albeit smiling. Only Spy was allowed to address him as such. And since it was only them, Sniper felt no inhibitions in playing along.

"Dans un pub, dans le secret ... la mort est la mort," Sniper took another drink. "Nous savons tous."

It only partially hurt Spy's ears to hear Sniper speak in his own tongue. The man was fairly fluent, which Spy loved and was grateful for, but Sniper's accent was terrible. That Sniper even indulged him, however, meant so much to Spy in an almost unmanly way.

"Alors..." Sniper continued, "Toi?"

"Moi?" Spy gazed up at the stars. It was a beautiful night. "Je n'ai pas fait beaucoup de peine d'en parler."

"C'mon Spy. I know yeh got _something._ Yeh've always got something."

The BLU rolled his wine glass between his fingers, admiring the gleam of moonlight as it bounced through the glass. "I'm afraid not. My travels 'ave been limited as of late. Ze most I 'ave been able to manage is a brief trip 'ome. I revisited a few old lovers, and acquired a few fresh ones."

Sniper was fascinated with how Spy talked about women the way Sniper might about guns, or Scout about baseball cards, or Medic about his surgical instruments (although Medic often spoke of his instruments as if they were lovers, so...). Sniper didn't fault him for it, but it did strike him as strange.

"Oh, Spy, that reminds me. I asked our own about this after hearing about how he shagged Scout's mum, but he never did answer me straight."

Spy took a long drag from his cigarette. Delicious nicotine, it was. "_Allez-y._"

"Do yeh two... do Spoies, I mean... do yeh ever take off yer..." he gestured to his face. "Yer, ah... yer doovalacky..."

"My balaclava?"

"Yeah, yeah. Do yeh ever take that thing off?"

"I do, but only when it must be washed, in which case I have many more to chose from."

"But our Spy wore it whoile shaggin' Scout's mum. Yeh don't even take it off for that?"

"Mais, non. I cannot let anyone know my true identity. Not even my closest lovers have seen beneath my balaclava."

"Don't it get in the way, though? Or at least a bit hot? I mean, why worry about some sheila knowin' what you look loike when yer shaggin' her brains out?" Sniper took another sip. "Doesn't make much sense, when you get roight down to it."

Spy shook his head, smirking. "Per'aps one day, when you find yourself running from ze government, you will see."

"'When,'" Sniper chuckled. "Roight."

A bang shook the sheeted metal around them, followed by some rather loud barking downstairs. Sniper and Spy smiled.

"Sounds like yer Soldier lost another hand to our Demoman," The bushman mused.

"'E is 'orrible at poker. I do not know why he insists on playing."

"W'll, because it's fun," Sniper said. "I mean, take Scoot and Scooter down there. They'd both play their baseball game even if they kept loosin', just because they both have fun rough housin'. I'd bet yeh my croc skins that Soldier an' Demo actually _enjoy_ yellin' themselves hoarse at each other. It's just another way to hang out, for them."

Spy rolled his eyes and sipped his wine, smirking. "It makes sense, at least."

The same baseball from before zoomed at Sniper's head, but the man caught it in the nick of time.

"The Hell!"

"Sorry, Snipes!" The RED Scout shouted, and had the decency to look it.

"Eh, no worries!" The bushman shouted, and lobbed the ball back down. To Spy's surprise, it bonked RED right on the forehead and knocked him flat. BLU burst out laughing, and Sniper started laughing with him.

"Was zat intentional?"

"Was what intentional?"

"Zat!"

"I dunno _what_ yer talkin' about, Spy."


	2. Silence

A Thriller/Suspense Piece.

* * *

The RED Scout spun around and swung, but BLU was gone. Just as he realized what was about to happen, it already had.

CRACK!

He head snapped back as metal collided with the back of his neck, and suddenly he was down. Every muscle in his legs, his arms, his body, let go. He fell flat and slid across the concrete, where every little chip, crack, and miniscule hole felt ten times more painful as it all raked across his face.

Then he was completely still.

RED didn't understand what the hell had just happened. He was supposed to land on his feet and swing back around on that two-timing jackass. Why hadn't he! And why the hell couldn't he get up! Why couldn't he move his face! Why couldn't he move his _eyes!_

From what little he could see with his face smashed against the ground, RED saw the black running shoes pull up next to his head. All RED could think was _Oh, fuck, oh, Christ,_ before BLU kicked him square in the shoulder.

_AAUGH! OW! Fuck, fuck, fuckin', fuck, OW, goddamn it, sonuva whore! What the hell!_

He didn't even manage a grunt.

BLU rolled him over onto his back with that same foot. His eyes were still full of hate for his enemy, but they were more confused. He knew he hadn't killed RED, but he wasn't getting up.

RED tried to look the other Scout in the eyes. He tried, he _tried,_ he used every ounce of willpower he _had_. He screamed at every muscle in his body to _move,_ to _twitch,_ to do _something, goddamn it, __**move—**_

"Seriously, dude? You tryin'a play dead? Seriously? I can see ya breathin', ya moron!"

Another kick, to his side this time. RED's mind ground up and yelled again, but still his body remained completely quiet, completely limp.

"Whats'a matter, ya frickin' _stupid?_ I said get the hell up!"

Then BLU lifted up his foot, and RED was forced to witness it in slow motion. _Oh, no, no, hell– __**fuck no—!**_

CRUNCH.

RED screamed. No, he tried to scream, and he swore he was for a minute because his own thoughts were so fucking loud coupled with the pain. His nose was broken, and warm blood was already sliding down his cheeks, some drops pooling in his ears before trickling into the concrete.

BLU found himself getting irritated. "Okay, what the hell."

Through the throbbing pain starting in his face, RED suddenly felt an icicle of fear plunge through his chest as the grave reality of the situation dawned on him. He couldn't move. He couldn't talk. He was... what'd Medic called it... _paralyzed._

Something warm dripped from the corner of his mouth, and Scout's pride could only prey that it was blood.

"Holy shit, are you _droolin'?_"

Guess not.

That seemed to be the spark that set off the lightbulb in BLU's head. "You... you can't move, can ya...?"

The RED Scout may have been impulsive, but he wasn't stupid. _Oh God, please, dude, c'mon, c'mon, do something. Help a brotha out, man, please!_

A dark, sadistic smile crept over BLU's face.

"No shit..."

The fight at Well was taking place over on RED's side of the field, and they were in BLU's building. There was no one else in sight.

BLU dropped his bat and grabbed RED by the shirt, dragging him across the floor like a sack of potatoes. RED wheezed, chest heaving in a desperate attempt to breathe. The way his head lolled forward closed his nasal passage naturally, and his mouth had clicked shut, leaving his only airway constricted and blocked by slightly-parted lips and teeth. RED panicked, which only made his breath speed up.

The floor was suddenly smooth, covered in tiles and frigid. The dragging was easier on BLU, but only made things more frightening for RED.

_What the hell're you doin' with me, Blu-fag! Where you pullin' me! Holy fuck, air, air, air—air! Breathe, oh god that's good, fuck, where the hell are we goin'? Put me down, put me go, let me go, lemme go lemme go lemme go– just fuckin' kill me already just do it no he ain't gonna kill me that'd be too easy it's an opportunity I wouldn't kill me if I was him I'd shuck'im away like oh god oh God Jesus Christ he wouldn't he wouldn't he wouldn't he would oh god he's gonna throw me in a closet an' lock the door shoved in a school locker like a nerd oh fuck oh shit oh FUCK OH SHIT NO NO NO_

BLU tossed him against a cold wall in a small room full of computers and hi-tech looking devices. RED's body lolled, then slid onto it's side. BLU flipped him so that he faced away from the door and moved his head so he could breathe easily.

"Nobody's allowed in these rooms, y'know," BLU said, still wearing that horrifying smile. RED's face just stared off, unmoving.

"I wanna say nothin' personal... but who the hell am I kiddin', right?"

RED's nose had just started to crust over until BLU stomped on it one more time. Then, he reached down and turned off RED's headset.

"I really wonder how long it'll take before ya team starts lookin'. If they even _wanna_ find _you._"

RED's face was on fire. He could hardly think though it. And just as the throbbing began to wane, he heard the door shut and click.

And everything was still.

Scout's heart was pounding against his chest like a prisoner, desperate to escape. It wasn't so different from his mind. Scout was trapped in his own body, hidden away in the enemy base in a room that was off-limits and almost always locked anyway. At least, that what it was like on his own side of the field; Scout assumed that everything in their bases was mirrored. Even if, by some one-in-a-million stroke of luck, one of his teammates happened to wander in, they wouldn't see him breathing because his body was facing away from the door. They'd think he was dead, and wouldn't bother.

His headset was off, which meant he couldn't even send out a breathy SOS on the off-chance anyone called for him. And no one would think it was strange, because Scout forgot to change the batteries on the thing almost all the time. It was sometimes off for weeks on end.

And, to top it all off, BLU had opened his airways. BLU wasn't going to let him choke his way out of it; he wanted RED to suffer in here as long as he possibly could. Scout had eaten a huge breakfast and a huge lunch, on top of all that; starvation wouldn't kick in for days.

_Christ, oh Christ, oh god... someone, help me... please..._

Two beads of tears rolled down his emotionless face, and mixed with the pool of blood and saliva.

He was trapped.


	3. Kitchen Duty

"Kitchen Duty"

* * *

Spy's eyes flicked over the chess board, scrutinizing every piece's position, every possible move, and every possible outcome. Soldier's eyes were likely doing the same thing, but who could say with that helmet covering his face? Eventually, Spy settled on his Rook, which glided to rest on the other side of the field in direct view of Soldier's King.

"Check."

"Hmm," Soldier grunted, a slight grimace tugging at his lips. His thumb and index finger scratched his chin in thought. Then, he took the Rook with his Queen.

Scout, who was sitting backwards in a chair and watching the game over crossed arms, narrowed his eyes and smirked.

"Bad move, man."

Spy summoned his own Queen, hidden amongst the jumble of other pieces, and slid her straight through the fray to take Soldier's Queen out.

"Check mate," Spy stated.

Scout started chuckling, eyes darting back and forth between the offending Queen and Soldier's unreadable face, waiting for a reaction. To his surprise, after a moment of searching, Soldier smirked with a 'Hmph!' and went to shake Spy's hand.

"Well played, crescent-roll."

Scout watched as the two men stood, his mouth hanging open slightly. Spy offered to reset the board for another game, but Soldier was forced to decline, saying that he and Shovel had to practice some new battle strategy together.

After Soldier left the Rec room, Scout raised as eyebrow at Spy. "Since when is Soldier so calm about losing? Or did I jus' miss som'n?"

Spy straightened his collars and adjusted his tie. "Since when are you interested in watching _chess_ matches? Or did _I_ miss somezzing?"

"Hey, you got a better idea, man? This place is _dead._ I'm bored shitless," He muttered, and let his arms hang loose over the chair's back to reinforce his point.

Spy snorted and got to resetting the board.

A soft pair of footsteps came down the stairs and around the corner. Scout looked up in time to see the familiar gas mask wearing a fuzzy yellow robe, fuzzy yellow slippers, smelling of cheap soap, and holding a thin, rectangular booklet wrapped in plastic.

Scout shot up so quickly that Spy actually jumped back, flinging pieces everywhere.

"_Dude!_ Dude, Pyro!" Scout ran to Pyro and grabbed the booklet. "Is'at the new Superman comic? _Oh, Hell yes!_"

Pyro shouted at the sudden assault and swatted Scout away, though God knew Pyro was just as excited. He expressed as much by hopping up and down with the comic clutched tight in his unclothed fingers and shouting incoherently.

Spy managed to regain his composure in time to see both men shouting and hopping up and down in sheer joy. Spy could only find the mind to scoff at them and gather up the pieces he'd dropped.

The two rushed off to the couch and jumped on with a force that made the old furniture piece audibly rebound. They didn't care, and scuttled close together to carefully remove the plastic protective cover. The sudden switch to calm delicacy was almost comical; they handled the comic book with a gentleness and reverence that, in Spy's opinion, ought to be reserved for a woman's skin and nothing else.

Nonetheless, Spy did his best to ignore them and finally finished setting the board up. At last he could get away from the cinematic, childish narrative Scout and Pyro had begun reading aloud.

As Spy disappeared up the stairs, Sniper appeared in his place.

"Everythin' alroight down 'ere? Thought I 'eard someone fall."

Scout didn't hear him, but Pyro looked up and flashed a quick thumps-up before turning right back to the book.

Sniper raised an eyebrow and tilted his hat up with his thumb. Curious, he sauntered over behind the couch to see what had caught their attention so pointedly. Soon both brows were high on his forehead.

"Is'at Superman?"

"Hell yeah it is!" Scout was grinning like a dope. "Hot off the presses!"

Sniper nodded, politely returning the smile. "Alroight, cool. I'll leave you to it, then."

As he made to depart, Scout suddenly called back to him.

"Oh, Snipes! Engie told me t'remind you that, ah..." His face knotted up in thought and he snapped his fingers. "Ah... Shit, what'd he tell me—? Oh! Yeah, KP. You got KP tonight, Snipes."

"Ah, piss, I do, don't I?" He had a sour smile on his lips as he checked his watch. "Ooh, I may not be able to— well... no, yeah, yeah, I could make it. Cut'n it close, though..."

Sniper turned on a heel and make for the East garage.

"'Ey, where th'hell you goin' Snipes! You gotta make dinner!"

"I know, and I will. If anyone asks, then I should be back around... oh, five-ish? Maybe four-thirty if it's a good run."

With that, the bushman was gone.

Scout's eyes lingered on where he'd been only moments ago, then just shrugged and got back to Superman.

Time passed and various teammates stopped by the Rec room while Scout remained. Heavy had come by to get a bit of reading done in peace, but after about ten minutes Scout started making fun of how stupid he looked in reading glasses, so Heavy left. Medic and Engineer had passed through, both eccentrically discussing some topic Scout could only assume had something to do with Engie's robo-hand. Spy had apparently convinced Demoman to play him, but Scout didn't feel like watching them play. Pyro had stopped back in around Star-Trek time, wearing baggy jeans and a thick sweater. They'd both curled up at the foot of the old TV like a couple of little kids.

Then five o'clock rolled around, and the show ended.

Scout cut off the screen. "Man, now those fur-ball thingies are gonna give me nightmares."

"Nrrtmrrs? R thrrt thrr wrr cyrrt!"

"Cute! Ew, man! Ain't nothin' cute about those little freaks." Scout shuddered. "Them things screech. Not cool."

Demoman took one of Spy's Knights.

The low rumble of an engine pulled up outside, and Scout groaned. "Finally! It's about goddamned time he got back from the market, I'm starving!"

The rumbling died. There was a long silence before the back door opened and heavy, wet boots slapped across the floor, approaching the Rec room.

Scout thought that the wet slapping was odd as it wasn't storming outside, but whatever, he was hungry. "Yo, Snipes, you better've bought som'n good 'cuz I ain't eatin' no more'a that vegee-mite crap you force–"

Scout's words fell right out of his head when he looked up and saw Sniper strolling right through the Rec room towards the kitchen. The man was soaking wet from head to toe, clothes ragged and torn up here and there, smeared with dirt, and had quite a few deep wounds all along his arms and knees that were glistening with fresh blood.

Of course, Scout only noticed all of this _after_ seeing the massive crocodile corpse slung over his shoulder, toothy jaws hanging open and tail dragging on the floor behind him.

Scout's face was that of total disbelief.

Sniper took a deep, fresh breath, pushed his soggy hat up a bit and checked his watch.

"Supper should be ready in about... oh... what, seven, seven-thirty?"

Smiling, he walked right past Scout into the kitchen.

The Bostonian gaped for five solid seconds before looking desperately over at Pyro, then Spy, then Demo.

"Did-did you-did you see—! Did he just— was that a—!"

Pyro shrugged. Spy leered at Sniper and shook his head with disgust. Demoman just laughed at Scout.

"Ooh, lad, oh yer fehce! I's not th' first tuime he's done this, y'knoow. Have ye never seen him bring home th' behcon?"

"Nu-uh, man! Bacon's all stripped an' greasy an' junk! That shit ain't no bacon!"

Demoman laughed even harder.

"That is the _last_ time I'm ever touchin' Sniper's food! _Last_ time!"

Scout left the Rec room slightly green in the face. Demoman still couldn't quell his hysteria, and it was starting to annoy Spy because Demo hadn't made his move yet. Pyro shrugged again. If Scout wasn't going to have Croco-steak anymore, then that just meant Pyro got more.


End file.
